


This Blessed Arrangement

by karmascars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arranged Marriage, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Royalty, also mentions of Jo, and Benny, and Garth, and Jody Mills, but they never actually show up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-17 23:06:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9350237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmascars/pseuds/karmascars
Summary: AU. Dean, a crown prince, was to be married to a girl from a neighboring kingdom, until he tried to call it off by telling the king he’s into guys. But now, he’s still getting married -- to Castiel. Whom he’s never met.





	

****“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Dean grumbles to his reflection. Green eyes glitter beneath a furrowed brow, and seeing that he makes a conscious effort to smooth it out. _Don’t want lines,_ he thinks, mimicking his father’s gruff patois.

_An arranged marriage._

_Countries still do that?_

Dean yanks at the intricate tie knot nestled to his throat. His suit is intricately embroidered and that makes it far too stiff, he thinks, to be worn by a human being. Even their kingdom’s finest tailors couldn’t make this thing comfortable. Done in shades of copper and burgundy, it hugs his slender frame and makes his eye color pop.

He affects a pout at the mirror. It becomes a scowl.

 _I’ve never even met this guy,_ he gripes to himself, wary of saying too much loud. His father is known to have spies everywhere, even in his own land.

_It’s great that Dad is so accepting and all, but when I crashed that banquet last month with my surprise friggin’ announcement, I expected him to call this off._

But all John Winchester had done was sip his drink, beckon to a steward, and within 24 hours change the intended betrothed of his firstborn son from a girl named Cassie to a guy named Castiel.

Now, Dean had built up a rapport with Cassie. Courted her, if you will, with gifts and rides in his awesome vintage automobile and even a song — never mind that it ended in giggles and promises he’d never do it again. Cassie is something special. That's part of why Dean, after months of agonizing, finally decided to break it off. It wouldn't be fair to her, having to marry a dude who's more into other dudes. Cassie could have anyone she wants. She’s gorgeous, smart, a spark of a girl that keeps Dean on his toes.

But who the fuck is Castiel?

They’d sent over a photograph. _He looks stiff,_ Dean thinks, glowering over at it leaning on his chair, still in its temporary cardboard frame. The man in question is standing to the side of his family, hands behind his back, staring through the camera. _He looks like he’s got zero sense of humor. A real wet blanket. And what’s with that safari outfit?_ Castiel looks like he’s ready to shoot a lion or something.

“Your Highness?” a low voice hails, along with a knock. His father's manservant. Dean whirls and has to consciously restrain himself from running to Bobby Singer’s arms like he would have as a child.

As it is, everything he’s feeling must show on his face.

“It’s not gonna be so bad,” Bobby says. His smile is meant to be encouraging, Dean knows, but can also see the sadness there. “I hear this guy has a real good heart. He’s popular at the apiary.”

“Bees?” Dean scrunches up his face.

“Honey. Their chef told Jody,” the head of their royal kitchens, “that this Castiel guy is a heck of a baker.”

Dean hums, discontent.

“Maybe he makes pies?”

“Shut up,” Dean grumbles, turning back to the mirror. “I don’t need to be bought.”

“No, ‘course not.” Bobby approaches behind him, strong hands working at the knots along Dean’s shoulder blades. “You’re a strong, independent monarch who don’t need no pies.”

The word _monarch_ makes Dean’s stomach flip. He couldn’t think of pie right now, anyway. The whole point of this marriage is to solidify relations between their kingdom of Lawrence and Castiel’s neighboring kingdom, Cenaculum. It has to be Dean, because his bed-ridden brother Sam is too weak to rule, and their half-sister Jo has no interest. And it has to be soon, because John and his doctors don't know Dean knows, but John the Brave is dying.

Another reason why Dean's ultimate decision to crash that banquet with, _“I'm gay, Dad,”_ was such a tough one to make. And probably why John made the switch so calmly.

It had to be done for the good of the kingdom.

So does this. Dean knows.

He squares his shoulders, lifts his chin, and meets Bobby's eyes in the mirror with a determination he's faking til he makes it.

“I'm ready,” he says. “Tell them they can start the music.”

 

\- - - - -

 

Just outside the chapel doors, Dean pauses, swallowing hard. The spring breezes toy with the edges of his coat, lifting the scents of new floral growth past his nostrils. _There's a metaphor there,_ he thinks, adjusting his tie again. His palms are sweating.

His entire family and half the kingdom are in there. So is this figurehead, this Castiel, whom Dean knows nothing about and yet is expected to spend the rest of his life --

“Nervous?”

Dean jumps. “Sam!” he hisses, rounding on his brother, who is standing there leaning heavily on his gilded canes and trying not to laugh. “What the hell? You should be inside.”

“What, I can't wish you luck?” Amusement dances across Sam's sharp features, beneath his mop of golden brown hair. He affects a swoon. “Oh my stars, has married life changed you so much already?”

“Shut up. You shouldn't be walking around, you know it'll tire you out.”

“You'll be fine, Dean.”

Dean scowls at him, no malice in it. Sam never worries about himself if Dean or anyone else he loves is having a hard time. That's why the court physicians didn't catch his illness until it nearly stole him away.

Sam sobers. “Jo told me one of her Cenaculan friends says Cas is really kind to animals. He'll have you eating out of his hand.”

“I got a hand for ya,” Dean grouses. “And Cas? Seriously? Did they just pick the guy with the most similar name?”

Sam's eyebrows meet his hairline. “Don't you know? Cas is their crown heir. He was going to defer to Cassie and wander off writing a book, or something.”

“So he's a nerd,” Dean says on reflex, digesting that.

“ _You're_ a nerd,” Sam shoots back. “And you'll be fine.”

“Sam,” comes their father's disapproving tone, ahead of the man himself, as he rounds the building. “Shouldn't you be seated inside?”

“Just wishing Dean luck, sir,” Sam says quickly. With a light fist tap to Dean’s arm and a bolstering smile, he hobbles away.

John regards his eldest son. Dean stares back, hoping none of his misgivings show on his face.

But his father has always been able to read him like a book.

“Dean, I’m sorry there isn’t another way.” He sounds genuinely regretful. Dean deflates a little.

“Me too,” he says, meaning most of all that he wishes John could rule until he’s gray.

Standing here in his ceremonial whites, the king doesn’t look frail. Not like Sammy. John’s illness is internal. It eats away at him and sometimes causes him tremendous pain. Dean wouldn’t wish that on anybody, not even a man he hated for years because of how strict and aloof a king has to be, even with his family.

For all their relationship has been rocky, John has reigned over Lawrence with a just hand.

Dean isn’t sure he can do half as well.

Nothing for it now, though. Summoning a smile, he shoves that thought down deep.

“Let’s do this?”

John huffs. “Let’s.”

They shove open the chapel doors together. Joyous organ music blasts out on the rush of cool, incense-scented air. All heads turn, all eyes finding them as they make their way inside.

Dean squirms internally at being so regarded. But he holds his head high, striding down the aisle beside his father to the altar. The pulpit has never seemed so far away. Maybe it’s because there’s never been dark eyes regarding him so studiously from in front of it.

Castiel is tall. He dwarfs the priest and his father, the king of Cenaculum, standing beside them. Even the arching candelabras seem to dim and dwindle before his figure. He’s clad in subtle shades of blue and gold -- the colors of his kingdom.

Every step toward him feels laden with destiny. Once Dean is snagged by that stare, he can’t look away. As he gets closer, he can pick out more and more details, but it’s not until he’s reached the steps and has ascended to stand eye level with the prince that he realizes, _Damn. Those eyes are blue._

A slight incline of Castiel’s head is all the greeting he gets.

“Dearly beloved,” the priest begins. Dean tunes him out. He studies the face he barely glanced at in the photo. Castiel is young, about his age, but his face has deeper lines. Probably from studying, Dean figures. Bees or no bees, Castiel’s skin is too pale to assume he spends much time outdoors.

Someone made an effort to tame the prince’s hair, but it’s still basically a mop, an amusing apex to such a strong jaw and build. His hands are clasped behind his back. He's standing like a soldier, feet planted solidly beneath his shoulders, which are squared with perfect posture. He could be an oil painting.

Dean can feel himself being studied as well. When Castiel’s eyes flicker back to his, Dean is prepared to offer a smile --

But the force of the spark that kicks up between their stares is like a punch to the gut.

He sees Castiel feel it too, sees a flicker of a frown line furrow that pale brow, a hint of a frown at his lips.

Dean wets his.

“-- you, Dean, crown prince of Lawrence, take Castiel to be your lawfully wedded husband, in sickness and in health, in times of war and times of peace, so long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” Dean says automatically. It comes out hoarse.

“And do you, Castiel, crown prince of Cenaculum, take Dean to be your lawfully wedded husband, in sickness and in health, in times of war and times of peace, so long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” Castiel says. They’re the first words Dean has heard him say. He’s shocked by the depth of the gravel in Castiel’s voice. It doesn’t sound like he talks much. Dean wonders if he was teased for that voice when it changed.

The rest of the ceremony passes in a blur. They exchange the rings -- Castiel’s hands are warm and dry -- and sign the register. Dean thinks his signature looks like a scrawl next to Castiel’s script, despite all the training he’s received in penmanship.

And when they're seated at the wedding feast, Dean keeps glancing over at his -- _wow, it feels weird to call him my husband,_ he thinks. Glancing at Castiel. Who is sitting ramrod straight, making polite conversation with all those who approach the table, and barely eating anything.

Dean looks down at his own plate. The pheasant, golden potatoes, and greens all looked appetizing. And he does trust Jody. Everything she cooks is amazing. But the enormity of what just happened is sinking in and he doesn’t trust his stomach anymore.

“I hope they’re not gonna expect us to dance,” he mutters. Then clenches his jaw shut so tight his teeth grind. He didn’t mean to say that out loud.

He can feel Castiel’s eyes on him.

Then a low voice asks, “Do you not know how?”

It doesn’t sound like it was meant to be insulting, but it strikes Dean as such. Barbed, he glances over. “Course I do -- do you?”

“Yes. It was mandatory.”

 _Kinda like this, huh,_ Dean thinks. “Do you, uh -- Do you wanna --”

“Not particularly. But if you do, I shall. This is your feast.”

Startled, Dean turns to fully regard him. “ _Our_ feast,” he reminds Castiel. “We’re -- ulp. We’re married.”

“We are.” Castiel doesn’t look all that disturbed by the pronouncement.

At least, until Dean looks closer.

He’s used to the way his family and friends show emotion. With Sam, you watch the forehead, and with John you watch the jaw. Jo clenches up all over, Benny smiles _more,_ and Garth, bless the little dude's heart, puffs up three times his size. Cassie would blaze to the ends of her hair. Dean’s not sure he knows anyone who bottles it up the way he does -- or he didn’t, anyway, until now.

There is a storm behind Castiel’s calm blue sea of a gaze. Turmoil. Uncertainty. He doesn’t want to be shackled to some guy he just met any more than Dean does, and unless Dean misses his guess, he sees some of the same self-loathing he feels every single day.

“You wanna blow this popsicle stand?”

Castiel blinks. “I -- don’t understand that reference.”

“You don’t have popsicles in Cenaculum?” Dean’s laughing, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about it. You wanna get out of here?”

“But it’s the wedding banquet. We have to stay for toasts.”

“Nah, they’ll do those anyway. We can leave whenever we want.” Abruptly, Dean stands, holding out his hand to Castiel, who keeps blinking those blue eyes up at him in complete confusion.

Dean affects a bow over his outstretched hand, murmuring wickedly, “You know they’ll just think we’re sneakin’ off.”

“To --” Castiel’s eyes widen. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Dean laughs. “But we don’t have to --” His next chuckle is nervous. “Just come on.”

Castiel’s hand is even warmer in his now, and when he stands, he’s the closest to Dean he’s been yet. He smells of baking spices and something else, all his own, something like rain on the horizon as dawn approaches.

In a maddening rush of clarity, Dean feels his embroidered breeches getting tighter.

They turn from the table, hands still clasped. Two more steps and they’re free --

A cheer goes up.

Caught, Dean turns. He sees Sam grinning ear to ear, wicked smiles on the faces of his friends, and a whole sea of onlookers exchanging knowing nods.

He raises a hand to forestall all the chatter. His heart is racing, but this isn't the first time he's addressed a gathering. Never mind what they're gathered for.

“I want to thank you all for coming,” he says. “I apologize for taking leave so soon, and I hope you enjoy the feast. Our head chef worked her tail off.” Some titters at this. “Make sure you stay for drinks and dancing, and enjoy. This isn't just our night.” Inspired, Dean raises his and Castiel's hands. “It's a celebration for both our kingdoms.”

An even louder cheer rises as he turns from the table, guiding Castiel between their chairs to a door hidden behind heavy curtains. It lets them out into a small passageway of hewn stone. The only light is provided by candles in neat sconces along the wall.

“Phew,” Dean sighs, relinquishing Castiel's hand. “I hate making speeches.”

There he goes again, saying stuff he doesn't mean to say aloud. Something about Castiel fosters trust. That must be it. And the fact that when Dean leans back against the wall, Castiel does the same on the opposite side.

They regard one another in the flickering light.

Quickly hating the silence, Dean breaks it. “Now what?”

“I'm surprised they let us go without ceremony,” Castiel says. “I was sure we were in for at least three dances, an hour of toasts, and an escort to the --” He breaks off, glancing away.

“The bedchamber,” Dean supplies, overly droll.

He thinks he sees a hint of a smirk on Castiel's lips.

“They're all in for that,” he continues. “But we can do whatever we want. It's always been that way here. Mom and Dad --” He coughs, his throat suddenly tight. “They danced, but they were gone before dessert. Dad always said it was her idea.”

Blue eyes rendered brown by the light look almost fond. “You miss her.”

Welp, that's as much share and care as Dean is interested in having. Abruptly, he shoves off the wall. “Wanna see the gardens?” He knows Castiel has heard of them; the palace gardens of Lawrence are fabled across the land.

He's gratified by the way Castiel brightens.

“Very much so!” He falls in step beside Dean, their shoulders brushing in the narrow passage. “Is it true you have six kinds of lilies, birds of paradise, angel oaks--?”

“We've got more than that,” Dean says. “And just wait til you see the hedge maze.” Castiel's excitement is catching. “This way.”

 

\- - - - -

 

Sunsets in Lawrence have always been the most beautiful to Dean, but even the ambient glow of the evening pales in comparison to Castiel's face when they step outside. Dean has seen the gardens most every day since he was born, so he watches Castiel take them in as they make their way down the wide stone steps.

He'd swear he hears a happy little sigh when Castiel's feet find the grass.

And it truly is a sight to behold. Dean remembers when some of the younger trees were planted, but the older growth has been here for generations. Delicate moss hangs from the branches of gnarled oaks. Cattails whisper against one another at the edge of the nearest pond. And everywhere, flowers are waking up, proud and new in the face of oncoming night. It'll soon be warm enough to sleep outside.

Dean leads Castiel around the pond, past some of the more noteworthy topiaries -- grinning, watching Castiel study them -- over to a stand of trees. Wending between them, he finds one with a hollow knot at its heart. He winks at Castiel in the fading light as he reaches in.

He pulls out an unmarked brown bottle.

“A blessing, on this most auspicious day,” he intones, pulling the cork and taking a swig. Hoo, but that stuff only gets more astringent with age. Brewed three countries away, Dean scored the stuff in his teens, and kept it squirreled away for special occasions. He's got a few more stashed around here somewhere.

“I'm sure that's what your ancestors intended when they planted this tree,” Castiel says drily. But he accepts the bottle when Dean offers -- and knocks back a shot like a pro.

“Damn,” Dean whistles low. “That's talent.”

He can't see very well under the spread of the oak, but he thinks Castiel is blushing. Something flutters around in his midsection; butterflies, steadily morphing into dragons.

Another reckless gulp of the fiery brew, and Dean swipes at his mouth with his sleeve. He's already warmer, and more inclined to be honest.

 _I thought you'd be a stick in the mud._ He has to clench his jaw to keep from saying it aloud. _But you've been cool about this. Cooler than I would have been, if they’d married me to some guy just because he said he was into that._

_What right do I have to rob you of your life?_

_“He was gonna write a book, or something,”_ Sam's voice echoes in memory.

Dean squashes that down deep within himself with the rest of his guilt.

“Y’know,” he says, staring hard past Castiel toward the gentle hilly slope and the maze beyond, “I have no idea what I'm doing.”

“That makes both of us,” Castiel murmurs, easing the bottle from Dean's grip.

Dean whirls. Watches Castiel's throat work as he swallows. _I'm sorry,_ he wants blurt. _For draggin’ you into this. It's all my fault._ But he's only barely tipsy. Silent, he turns away again, a lump rising in his throat.

The sun has finally slipped beneath the treeline, the shadows deepening. Shades of gold coalesce amid rustling green and muted points of color. The entrance to the maze looks like a portal to another world.

When he and Sam were younger, they knew the whole of it by heart. They'd spend entire days in there only to emerge laughing when they heard their father's baying hounds pick up their scent. Dean hasn't traversed the maze since Sam fell ill, and wonders now if it's been maintained these past few years. Or reconfigured. He'd hate to lead Castiel in there only to get him lost.

“We have a saying in my country,” Castiel says, his voice a gravel path through the burgeoning night. “ ‘Even without rhyme, there is a reason.’ Although a situation may not make sense, it happened for some purpose. I'd like to think that applies here.” He turns to Dean, eyes sparkling. “If only to give us hope.”

Dean can only huff a chuckle that’s more air than anything else, and shake his head.

“Did you want to show me the maze?” Castiel asks gently.

“Did you want to risk getting lost in the maze? I haven’t been in years.”

Castiel peers down the slope. “It looks upkept from here…”

“Ah, but that’s how they get you,” Dean says. He slips the bottle from Castiel’s grasp.

“I’m willing to take another risk today if you are,” Castiel says, starting toward the slope, turning to lope along backward as Dean follows.

“Another?”

“I showed up to get married, didn’t I? And I’m here, with you, alone. In the dark. If you’d wanted to assassinate me --”

“On our wedding night?” Dean laughs, loud and bright. “What is this, a penny dreadful?”

“It might be.” Castiel turns, standing before the entrance to the maze, the leafy arch framing him like he really is the oil painting Dean considered he could be. His blue and gold brocade has become forest camouflage, pattern shifting with the branches behind them. “Are you --”

A lonesome howl wends its way through the maze to find them. It’s never failed to make the hairs on Dean’s neck stand on end. He watches Castiel process the threat, how he fluidly finds a fighting stance and moves to shield Dean.

Who places a hand on his shoulder. “Stand down, man at arms. It’s always done that.”

Castiel’s shoulder is warm. Dean should probably remove his hand, but instead he moves closer, gripping the embroidered surface. “They say there was a witch lost in there once,” he says, hushed, closer to Castiel’s ear. “You can still hear her howl when the moon comes out, hoping the dogs will hear and answer so she can find her way again.”

His lips brush the shell of Castiel’s ear, tingling at the sudden contact. He didn’t realize he was so close. Castiel shudders beneath his hand, against his chest, the lay of Dean’s body pressed up against him.

And when Castiel turns, they’re only an inch or so apart.

“Show me?” he murmurs.

Dean glances at Castiel’s parted lips. His feel dry, too dry.

He nods. “Sure,” he says, hoarse.

Together, they step through the arch. It’s with a great reluctance that Dean lets his hand fall away.

 

\- - - - -

 

It's just as he remembers: dim, mystical, the scents of loam and growing things permeating his breaths. Dean leads, but Castiel walks beside him, peering around every corner, almost taking a wrong turn once or twice out of curiosity.

They pass several arbors with benches ensconced, two fountains with silent cherubim, and a shadowy place Dean knows is one of the palace’s many secret exits. He doesn't have a destination in mind. As they ramble, he finds he's content to simply wander alongside Castiel and drink.

Until they find one of the four tiled courtyards. Castiel stops.

The moon has risen. Beneath its pearly sheen the tiles glow, transforming the courtyard into a ghostly dance floor. It looks as though the maze has devoured another palace, an older one, and this is all that remains.

Dean watches Castiel pad to the center of the space and turn, gazing up at the sky.

He takes another swig of liquor. It swims through his veins with the rest, warming him through, rendering his muscles languid and anxieties moot. He can worry when the sun comes up. Tonight, there is only this: a man who is a mystery, clad in the summer sky, who doesn't seem to notice when Dean ambles to his side.

Then he turns, his shining eyes finding Dean's face.

“This is beautiful, Dean,” he says, husky with honesty.

“So are you,” Dean replies without thinking.

But it turns out a good idea. For an interminable moment, Castiel blinks at him -- then surges into his space to press their lips together.

Dean hasn't kissed anyone since Cassie chastely allowed him a peck months ago, and before that, it had been a few years.

He was a rake in his youth, he’ll admit. But as his family began to suffer, he assumed more and more responsibilities in anticipation of running Lawrence someday. Dalliances were put aside. The more he added to his schedule, the less energy he had to pursue anything fun.

Anxious about wedding plans, then plans to call them off, Dean hasn’t even touched himself.

The moment they collide, his entire body ignites.

Immediately, he tilts his head, slotting into Castiel, fingers finding clumps of brocade jacket to haul in closer. Castiel’s arms wend around him, holding him fast, teeth sneaking a nip of his lower lip. Dean gasps, hips jolting forward. His cock twitches full and fat.

A swipe of tongue parts Castiel’s lips on a moan Dean swallows and chases toward his throat. His body follows, pressing Castiel back, stumbling with him until they hit the hedge and sink in. He’s got a firm grip on the bottle but is close to forgetting he’s even holding it. That he’s anywhere, or anyone, but present and hard as a bludgeon with Castiel.

His _husband._

With a growl in his throat, Castiel rolls them, widening his stance to keep Dean prisoner among the leaves. He leaves off Dean’s reddened, wanting mouth to attack the delicate skin of his neck. Lips suckle at nerves Dean didn’t even know he had.

He whines. One hand finds Castiel’s hip, running back along one pert ass cheek, urging him in so Dean can rut against his cock. So hard against his own.

“Dean,” Castiel says, hot on his neck. “I would have you here.”

All Dean can do is whimper. _Talk like that’s gonna ruin me,_ he thinks, a haze spreading over his thoughts. _Oh, my gods._

“But, I -- I’m honestly not sure how to proceed.”

Blinking, Dean ducks his head to find Castiel’s gaze, now fixed firmly upon the ground to his left.

“Have you ever, y’know, had sex?”

“I -- Once.” Even in shadow, Castiel's expression is wooden. “It did not end well.”

“Aw, you can't have been that bad a --”

“She was a spy, sent from the West. Summarily executed.”

Dean deflates. “Aha.”

“At least I can be sure _you_ are not a spy,” Castiel says, finally looking at him.

“Well, yeah, it'd be pretty stupid to try --” Dean catches sight of a twinkle in Castiel's eye. “Hang on, did you just make a joke?”

Castiel huffs. “Contrary to popular belief, I do have a sense of humor.”

“You little shit, I oughta --” Dean rises up, pressing the length of himself firmly against Castiel with a swivel-dip of his hips. Castiel’s jaw drops, his eyes hooded.

He leans in closer to Dean. Speaks against his lips:

“Ought to what?”

With a moan, Dean makes the connection, melding Castiel’s mouth to his. He rucks up the back of Castiel’s coat until he can snake his fingers between the tails, into Castiel’s waistband, and beneath his smallclothes. Castiel’s noise of surprise and heat is lost against Dean’s tongue.

Dean’s got a handful. His fingers graze the cleft, and his breeches get even tighter when Castiel shivers. Pulling back from their kiss, he runs the side of his face along Castiel’s, stubble burn almost a chill when it catches and stings.

“I could show you how it’s done,” he murmurs in Castiel’s ear.

It’s Castiel’s turn to sag in his arms.

“Or give you a guided tour.”

“Mercy,” Castiel mutters.

Dean throws his head back to laugh, and winds up with leaves in his hair.

“Let’s find the arbor,” he says. “I used to -- ah, go there. A lot.”

“Oh, did you?” Castiel’s eyes hold no guile. “To relax?”

“I -- yeah,” Dean says, for some reason happy they don’t, “it was _really_ relaxing.”

He finds Castiel’s hand without breaking their gaze. It’s difficult to look away to see where he’s leading them. It’s been years since he’s been here with anyone who had a hold on him like this, bespelled by kisses and dark-eyed stares and whispered promises.

It’s a good thing Dean’s hard, because he can focus on that instead of the dull ache those memories bring.

 

\- - - - -

 

They amble through the maze, loose but animated, their fingers entwined in the middle of the aisle. Passing the liquor back and forth, they renew their drunk while rambling on about nothing in particular.

“I was told you like to read, despite your reputation as a fearsome opponent in the training ring,” Castiel says. He barely slurs. “For some reason, this translated as someone who looks more like your brother. With spectacles.”

“Didn't you see any paintings, or anything? My tutor used to say there was a collection out there somewhere.”

“Not in Cenaculum.” Castiel stubs at a rock with his boot. “My father's sister went mad and destroyed much of our foreign art.”

“Mad, huh.”

“She was nice enough, until you got to know her and realized she wanted to consume your soul.”

Dean whistles. “We never heard about that.”

“Of course you didn't,” Castiel scoffs. “It would have destroyed relations with other kingdoms. We were able to find a cure, but unfortunately not before our collection was much diminished.”

They take a turning westward beneath carefully twined boughs.

“Y’know, I honestly thought _you’d_ be taller,” Dean muses. “In the photo, you tower over--”

Castiel pauses mid-step, looking alarmed. “They sent you a photo?”

“Yeah, you’re with your family… You’d been out hunting, or something?”

“They sent the _family portrait?”_ Castiel exclaims. “Was that really --” His drunken puzzled face is too adorable for Dean, who has to glance away. “I guess it was the most recent photo. Well, damn.”

Dean snickers. “You said a swear.”

“Shush.” Castiel swipes muddily at his shoulder. “I _had_ been hunting, and they surprised me when I returned. Said it would only take a minute and no one but us would see it. I should have known they wouldn’t keep a promise like that.” He scrubs a hand down his face, hiding behind it.

“You looked pissed,” Dean says mildly.

“They called me back early and I missed an entire herd. Yes, I was angry.” Castiel laughs into his palm. “So you thought I’d be some kind of tyrant.”

“I may have been preparing myself for a lifetime of stony silences.”

Castiel peeks between his fingers, relaxing when he sees Dean’s ribbing grin, laughing anew when Dean dances out of reach.

“I’ll give you a stony silence if you don’t kiss me again right now, insufferable tease.”

Dean complies, but only because he’d been wanting to kiss Castiel again anyway, and Castiel’s lips on his again make him sigh out against them before delving in. Their tastes have melded, evolved on his tongue.

“It’s not far now,” he breathes, nipping at Castiel’s chin.

“Good,” Castiel replies. His voice is strained. “I would hate to come fully clothed just from kissing you.”

“Oh, my gods.” Dean hugs Castiel to him. “How did I ever have sex without you?”

“With vigor?”

“Shut up,” and Dean kisses him again.

 

\- - - - -

 

By the time they’re stumbling into the arbor, Dean is blind to all but Castiel. He smacks the tender willow branches away with a fumbling hand, plastered to Castiel’s front with one leg wrapped halfway around Castiel’s waist. He only removes it to glance around hastily, find the soft patch of green grass, and throw himself down in the middle.

He extends a hand to Castiel. “C’mere.”

Castiel ranges over him, elbows planted in the grass, legs spread so far Dean is surprised he doesn’t hear stitches popping. When Castiel presses down, the length of his cock rubs hard against Dean’s, igniting sparks throughout Dean’s body. He can’t help but arch into it, hips working, short and steady strokes.

“ _Ungh,_ sit up,” Dean says. It extends into a groan, ill-timed during one of Castiel’s more sinuous grinds. “Good gods, dude.”

Castiel obliges. Dean sees the barest flash of a grin when the branches shift in the breeze.

“Help me get my jacket and shirt off.”

“Does your tailor always include fifty-five useless buttons, too?”

“You fuckin’ know it.” Dean grunts. Castiel is working the buttons loose, but he hasn’t let up on Dean’s cock, his own having found the groove of Dean’s thigh. “Cas --!”

“Dean,” Castiel pants in return. It’s gratifying to hear he’s just as strung out on this as Dean is. Struggling to remain in control of his own desires.

Together they bare Dean’s chest -- and Castiel bends to one nipple with lips and tongue and teeth, raising the little bud in a lightning strike that steals the air from Dean’s lungs.

He arches beneath the onslaught, gaping, the faint imprints of leaves above him blurred.

Fingers calloused from hunting find the other nipple, and Dean is suddenly a writhing triad of sensation, tossing his head upon the ground.

“You -- said somethin’ about comin’ in my, _nngh_ \-- pants?” He sucks in a breath. “Cas, I -- oh, my gods --”

“Can I put my mouth on you, Dean?” Castiel asks.

Dean gasps. Stares hard up at the trees and wills his ardor down. Waves of orgasm beat against the dam in a futile attempt to unleash in a splash and stars.

“Hmm.” Castiel leans into his field of view. “That’s a yes, then?”

“ _Yes_ ,” escapes in a sigh. Castiel is already moving down, scuttling on his knees, hesitant fingers finding the buttons of his fly. Dean squirms to feel another touch through the suddenly thin cloth of his breeches. His fingers dig into the grass, finding the fertile earth beneath.

Castiel’s hot, dry touch on him is tinder to a flame. Dean’s leg kicks out, impeded by Castiel crouching over him, fingers encircling his length to lightly slide up around the head.

“Oh, gods _damn_ …” Dean can’t contain his guttural oath.

“It’s good?” Castiel lowers his head, gusts of breath from his nose ghosting over Dean’s flesh.

“Gods, Castiel -- you’re amazing.” It’s true. Dean’s skin is alight. His cock twitches, the head bumping against Castiel’s lips.

Dean feels them part.

A tentative tongue runs around the very tip, and Dean whines.

Then Castiel envelopes the entire head.

Hot, cold, some new temperature of pure pleasure, Dean digs the back of his head into the grass, his fingers finding Castiel’s hair. His shaft is chilled by bare breezes but oh, the ends of his nerves are singing -- A chorus erupts when Castiel’s tongue makes its way around again.

His entire world has narrowed to his cock in Castiel's plush mouth. Hips lifting, he seeks in unconscious necessity to plunge in deeper, to claim Castiel's throat with the orgasm that swirls like a building monsoon between his legs.

He's unaware of how much noise he's making until Castiel pulls off and says,

“Careful. The witch might hear you.”

_What?_

_Oh --_ “I'll show you careful.” Dean grapples for Castiel's head, his hair as he cackles and dodges, to pull him back down. When he continues to miss, he props himself up on his elbows.

“Either get back down there or get up here,” he demands, somewhat imperious and very impatient. “Let me touch you.”

Castiel sits back. “How do you want to touch me?”

“ _Nnh,_ all kindsa ways.”

“Like how?” Castiel's hand finds Dean's cock again, derailing any scraps of concentration.

Dean sags back on his elbows, eyelids fluttering, til he can barely see Castiel at all. “I wanna get my mouth on you,” he babbles, hoarse with lust, “and suck you til you come so far down my throat I can't even taste it. Wanna fuck your mouth, wanna get my fingers in you, wanna lick every inch of your ohhhh, gods,” he breaks off. Castiel has bent back to his task, licking a hot stripe up Dean's shaft.

“I think I'd like all of that, too,” he growls, muffled against Dean's skin, “but I am finding pleasure aplenty in the noises you make when I do this.”

“Cas -- oh, fuck --”

Dean's legs are spread as wide as his breeches will allow. He's burning up at the core. “Pull these -- _ungh,_ off,” he begs, plucking at them with nerveless fingers.

“You still have your boots on,” Castiel says helpfully.

“For the love of --” Prising with his toes and heels, cursing when it's not fast enough, Dean kicks them off one by one. “Now I don't.”

Together and with a lot of wriggling, they manage to bare Dean's legs. His cock stands at an arc, supple and sturdy, the tip glistening with precome and saliva. His balls have drawn up tight to the shaft.

Castiel's eyes dart over every exposed inch, and Dean feels the paths they take.

Out of habit he grabs himself, jacking the length, hissing, tensing when his calluses scratch just right. _Tighter._ _Faster,_ his mind insists -- or maybe that's just his cock, desperate to spend.

Strong hands smooth up his thighs, thumbs over the pale soft swaths between them. Then they're pushing. Guiding Dean's knees up, his legs to spread further. Dean doesn't realize what's going on until Castiel ducks and --

A sharp gasp splits their sanctuary.

_“Cas!”_

Dean has to clutch himself at the base to keep from coming all over the dark mop of hair atop the head that is currently buried between his legs, Castiel's tongue seeking the little furl of his entrance with wicked intent.

“You -- bastard -- you still have all your clothes on,” he says in a rush, high and strained.

“And I am quite content, I'm finding, to remain that way while I take you apart,” Castiel replies. His frank certainty is made even more sinful by the way the words buzz against Dean's nerves down there. “It no longer bothers me to think I might soil my smalls.”

“But I wanna -- ohhh,” Dean moans.

“Hmm?”

“Hah -- don't, _ohh gods,_ don't _hum_ there, for fuck’s sake --” A hot dribble of precome makes its way down Dean's heavy length.

“Why not?” And he does it again.

“Cas,” Dean groans, “I'm not gonna make it.” He's torn between gripping himself, staving off the inevitable, or grabbing at Castiel's hair while that devil's tongue of his works its way inside him. He can't believe this is happening.

He's married.

To an incubus, it seems.

And Castiel has bent to his task with abandon, tongue like a spearhead, hands holding Dean spread wide open no matter how he writhes.

“I refuse to believe you've never done this before,” he whispers.

All Castiel does in reply is hum again, at the depth of his register.

Suddenly, Dean is aware of a fingertip probing alongside Castiel's tongue.

“Ah -- _Cas!”_ he yelps, snapping taut, coming hard with his eyes wide open in pulse after pulse over Castiel's head. “Caass,” he mewls, shaking through it, vision graying out as each stroke of Castiel's tongue inside him drags out the pleasure further.

He's sinking into the liquid realm of afterglow by the time Castiel pulls away.

But he struggles back up on his elbows. “You get your clothes off this instant.”

“Hmm?” Two points of light glitter from Castiel's shadowed face as he wipes his mouth on his sleeve. A tentative hand seeks the mess in his hair.

Dean's face heats. Were it daylight, he'd be an undeniable shade of red.

But Castiel just shakes his head. “I'll wear it with pride,” he teases.

“Oh, shut your goddamn perfect mouth, you -- C’mere!”

Tucking his legs around beneath himself, Dean rears up, grappling for Castiel, who lets out a bark of laughter and lets himself be caught. Their mouths collide, smiles and urgency clashing lips and teeth. Dean tears at every button he can find until he's got Castiel's shirts open and his fingers on flushed, bare skin.

He'll have light to see by later. Now, he maps each exposed inch by touch alone, tweaking a nipple in retaliation. Castiel is smooth, unblemished, all huntsman’s muscle beneath. He shudders at Dean's touch.

Running a trembling hand back under the cloth, Dean sloughs every layer from Castiel's shoulders. In the scant moonlight, he’s a carven marble god.

“Yeah,” Dean murmurs, tracing the highlight along the ridge of one shoulder, “you're perfect.”

Castiel ducks his head. “Dean, please --”

“Nah, man. You're incredible.”

He can tell Castiel has bitten down on a retort. Were it Dean, he might have tossed out an unthinking, _“You don't even know me.”_ He's grateful Castiel doesn't. This has been an amazing first date so far. And he's more than glad to spend the rest of his life finding out just how incredible Castiel really is.

“You are,” Dean says softly. “Lie back.”

Pressing Castiel into the grass, he begins to kiss all that alabaster skin, from clavicle to waistband. As he kisses lower and lower, he fumbles at buttons, cloth, and finally turgid flesh, so that when he reaches Castiel's pelvic ridge he can continue down to kiss the very tip of Castiel's cock.

Glancing up, he meets a very intent stare. He's not even sure Castiel is still breathing. Dean wraps his fingers around a length both longer and slimmer than his own.

Then he plunges down, taking as much of that hardness into his mouth as he can.

“Ah, _Dean --!”_

That unnameable spice that haunts Castiel's clothing and skin is strongest here. Dean breathes in deep before he can't anymore, taking Cas deep, letting the head hit the back of his throat and squeeze. He gags a little, lets back up, and tries again.

Throaty noises follow him down.

Enjoying his revenge, Dean hums as low as he can manage, chuckling around his mouthful when he hears Castiel scrabbling at the grass.

He pulls off briefly to say, “You can grab me,” plunging back down before Castiel can say anything more than a moan.

Both hands find his head. Castiel doesn't shove him down, but doesn't let him up, either -- Dean doesn't care. He likes it here. He likes the bitter tang of precome, the silky skin on his tongue, and the way the slim head of Castiel's cock keeps plunging into his throat.

Snatching a quick breath on an upstroke, Dean relaxes as much as he can. This time, he takes the whole head and part of the shaft.

“Oh --! Dean, oh, my gods --”

Dean bobs along the length, letting it scrape in and out of his throat, swallowing every chance he gets. Every time he does, Castiel thrashes beneath him.

“ _Dean._ Dean, please --”

One of Castiel's hands finds his where it's plastered to Castiel's hip, threads their fingers together, and grips tight. The other wanders down Dean's head to find and stroke with trembling fingers the bulge in his throat where Castiel's cock is sheathed.

Dean's cock stirs, spent but still interested. This is the hottest thing he's ever been party to.

Pulling up with a theatrical swirl of his tongue and all the suction he can muster, Dean focuses then on the spongey head. He attacks the slit, the glans, flicking with the tip of his tongue and drinking down each new gout of precome. More and more he coaxes from Castiel, until the man is bowing up beneath him.

Soft sounds, his cries undulating, Castiel must be tossing his head. He must be close.

Dean takes the length again, pulls up, and takes it, bobbing as quickly and hard as he can until Castiel's voice rises in a shriek.

Hot, thick liquid takes him by surprise. But Dean swallows, keeps swallowing, pulse after pulse while Castiel babbles his name to the whispering branches above them.

Only an over-sensitized whine makes him pull off with a sticky, satisfied pop.

Castiel wilts into the grass with a strung-out whimper, and a sigh.

Smacking his lips, Dean crawls back up the naked length of his husband and gathers him close. Nuzzles the side of his head, where sweat has beaded. Castiel still smells like spices, but now Dean and the forest are part of his scent, amalgamated perfection.

Dean thinks about saying something, maybe something saccharine like, _“Thanks for giving me a chance.”_

He's asleep before the thought becomes words.

 

\- - - - -

 

Waking to soft sunrise beneath the willow, Castiel snoring in his arms, Dean finds a whole new definition of beauty -- and can't help but wonder if this wasn't meant to be all along.

 _You sap,_ he thinks, fond smile spreading wider.

But it's true.

  


FIN

**Author's Note:**

> The name of Castiel's kingdom is Latin for _upstairs,_ because I'm a dork.
> 
> If you liked this, please leave kudos? Maybe even a comment? Feedback always makes my day. ♥


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